“What else? Armor? Air defense?”
Rittmann paused; then his eyes focused again on the pistol. “Personnel carriers, I don’t know how many. Ten, fifteen. Six helicopters, Dauphins. He has a supply of SA-16 antiaircraft missiles.”
Maxwell nodded. So it had been a shoulder-launched SA- 16 heat seeker that brought down his Hornet and, probably, one of the marine Cobras. The SA-16 was a deadly weapon at short range against low flyers. Another item they needed to know on the Reagan.
Maxwell looked at B.J., whose face was slowly regaining its color. “We have to get this guy back to the ship for interrogation.”
At this, Rittmann became agitated. “Ship? What ship?”
“The aircraft carrier.”
“No! Not the Reagan.”
The urgency in the German’s voice surprised Maxwell. “It’s not as if you have a choice in the matter.”
“the Reagan is… is not safe.”
“Not safe? Explain, please.”
“Al-Fasr—” He caught himself.
Maxwell tried not to sound too interested. “the Reagan is a hundred-thousand-ton warship. Nothing can happen to it.”
Rittmann shook his head. “Something will happen.”
Maxwell and B.J. exchanged glances.
“Keep talking,” Maxwell said. “What will happen?”
“I don’t know. Only that Al-Fasr hates the Americans, their Navy, their ships. This little war — it is all a charade. So he can spring a trap.”
“What kind of trap? What’s it got to do with the Reagan?”
“He has bragged about how he would sink the Americans’ most powerful ship.”
“And how did he say he would sink it?”
“He didn’t explain, only that he had a way.” With that, Rittmann seemed to realize that he had said more than he intended. He lapsed into another sulking silence.
Maxwell wondered how much the German was holding back. He considered threatening him with the pistol again. Or even the long-bladed knife. Perhaps he needed another near-death experience.
He pulled the knife out of his pocket and removed it from the scabbard. He looked at it for a moment, then put it down.
No more rough stuff, he decided. It was best that they deliver this creep to the intel debriefers. Let the professionals evaluate the information he was giving them.
B.J. said in a low voice, “Should we pass this information on the radio? They need to know that we have a prisoner.”
He shook his head. “Al-Fasr monitors everything we transmit. If he learns we have Rittmann, he’ll start a massive search for us.”
“So what do we do?”
“Wait for the helos to pluck us out of here in the morning. Rittmann too.”
In the darkness, the German seemed to be in a trance. He leaned against the tree with his chin on his chest.
“What about him?” she asked. “We can’t keep him tied up like that all night.”
Maxwell considered for a moment. “We’ll give him a chance to eat and relieve himself.” Maxwell lifted the .45. “Go ahead and untie his wrists.”
B.J. nodded and went to the prisoner. She knelt beside him and untied the parachute cord that fastened his wrists.
It happened so quickly that Maxwell couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Rittmann was on his feet. Holding B.J. from behind, he had an arm clamped around her neck.
Maxwell saw a flash of silver. Glinting in the darkness was the long slender blade of the fighting knife.
The damned knife! Thoughtlessly, he had put it down, forgotten it. Somehow Rittmann had managed to snag it and cut himself loose.
He was holding the blade against B. J. Johnson’s throat.
For several seconds no one spoke. Maxwell stood with the Colt in his hand, feeling powerless, furious with himself. Rittmann studied him. He kept the knife poised beneath B.J.’s chin.
“Our positions reverse again,” said Rittmann. “Stay where you are and drop the pistol.”
“It’s a standoff,” said Maxwell. He gestured with the .45. “If you do any harm to her, I’ll empty this pistol into you.”
Rittmann stared back at him, desperation showing in his eyes. “Would you like to see her throat cut?”
“Would you like to die from seven gunshot wounds?”
Rittmann tightened his grip around B.J.’s neck. “You won’t shoot while I have this knife.”
“Release her. You don’t have any options. You’ll be treated decently by the U.S. Navy.”
“You are a liar. I will be a prisoner.”
“You don’t have to be a prisoner. You can be a defector.”
“I will never defect to the Americans.”
“If Al-Fasr finds you, he’ll dismember you and feed you to the vultures.”
“He will be pleased to have a captured American pilot.” He glanced down at B.J. “Especially a captured woman pilot.”
Maxwell felt the situation slipping away from him. This was his fault. His own stupid bravado, roughing up the German, intimidating him into talking. It was payback time.
“Let her go.” Maxwell forced himself to keep his voice calm. “I give you my word as an officer, if you release her, we will allow you to leave. You can go free.”
He saw B.J. watching him, wondering whether he meant it.
Rittmann wasn’t buying it. “She comes with me. Do not follow us or I cut her throat.”
He began walking backward, forcing B.J. to match his steps.
Maxwell watched them move away. He felt B.J.’s eyes on him, waiting to see what he would do. They were nearly into the bushes, slipping away in the darkness.
He felt the weight of the Colt, more than two pounds, inert and useless as a stone. Another act of bravado, hauling around the clunky pistol that weighed twice as much as the more accurate Beretta. Even at close range, inside twenty yards, he was a lousy marksman with the .45. With any pistol, for that matter. He was a pilot, not a grunt.
They were vanishing in the trees. He raised the pistol, holding it in both hands. In the darkness he could see B.J.’s face, Rittmann’s arm around her neck, his face peering from behind her.
Maxwell aimed. His hands were shaking.
It was impossible. The sights were nearly invisible in the darkness. He would hit B.J.
If he missed, Rittmann would kill her.
Impossible.
He drew in a single deep breath. His world shrank into a narrow, dimly lit tunnel. The passage of time slowed, then stopped.
Nothing existed. Nothing but the dull blur of the gunsight, the dark oval of her face…
His hands no longer shook.
Freeze the picture. Shut out the world. Squeeze…
It sounded like a cannon. He was momentarily blinded by the muzzle flash.
As his vision returned, he saw them in the darkness. B.J. was down, writhing on the ground. Rittmann was still standing. He held the knife in one hand while he clutched his neck with the other. Blood spurted from between his fingers.
Maxwell’s eyes went from the girl on the ground back to the German.
An uncontrollable rage seized Maxwell. In a dreamlike state, he was transported back in time. He tried to take her away. He saw a red-haired girl. It was happening again. You’re losing her…
Rittmann lurched toward her.
Maxwell fired again. The bullet caught the German in the chest. He was blown backward.
Maxwell fired again. And again. He kept firing until the trigger wouldn’t pull anymore. The magazine was empty.
Stunned, he lowered the pistol. Gradually he became aware of B.J. staring at him. Her eyes were large and pale in the darkness.
He dropped the empty pistol and went to her. A dark wetness was spreading over the front of her flight suit.